“She was very tall, wore either slacks with sandals or billowing skirts with ballet slippers, drank any strong liquor in any amount, had had two miscarriages, wrote stories about animals, painted, as the reader knows, lakescapes, was already nursing the cancer that was to kill her at thirty three, and was hopelessly unattractive to me. Judge then of my alarm when a few second before I left (she and I stood in the hallway) Jean, with her always trembling fingers, took me by the temples, and with tears in her bright blue eyes, attempted unsuccessfully to glue herself to my lips.”